When the World Ends
by piaffe417
Summary: She'd give her life for him without question. He knows it and he couldn't live with himself if she ever proved it. If he lost her, it would be the end of the world...
1. Beginning

Author's Note – Want to know my favorite thing about this story? I have no idea where it's headed; all I know is that it started somewhere in southern Ohio (I was riding in a car at the time, thankfully in possession of my laptop) and by the time we hit Toledo, it was already into two chapters without letting me know what it plans to do. So we're all going to be surprised when we get to the end. When that will be, I couldn't say. I'm just hoping that I'm not too off character in this one. That's up to you to decide.

What I do know is that the story was inspired by Dave Matthews and "When the World Ends." I also confess that I don't own the characters; Dick Wolf does. No infringement is intended (but if it happens, it's not my fault – my muse is behind the whole thing).

_When the world ends  
Collect your things  
You're coming with me_

"When the World Ends," Dave Matthews Band

If Detective Robert Goren's best investigative tool is his library card, then his best interrogation tactic has to be his uncanny ability to weasel his way under the skin of whomever he is questioning. He doesn't know whether to thank or blame his errant father for this learned skill, which he perfected during the teenage years that he spent simultaneously attempting to gain his father's approval and also get his ire up enough to reinforce the rebellion that foreshadows the average young male's transition to manhood. At any rate, it works for him, whether he is charming his way into the good graces of a suspect in order to gain his or her confidence or needling them to the point at which they're sure to break and reveal all just to get him to leave them alone. It's a skill that may not translate well onto a resume, but that makes him a valuable asset to the NYPD's Major Case Squad and irreplaceable (thereby negating the need for him to ever put it on a resume in the first place).

And yet for all of the use that he gets from his library card and his unorthodox investigative methods, Robert Goren's absolutely necessary accessory – and she would kill him for ever even _thinking_ of her as anything akin to an accessory – is his partner, Alexandra Eames. (Make that, she would torture him six ways from Sunday, draw and quarter him, put his head on a pike for all to see, and _then_ bless him with the mercy of a painful but quick death if he ever described her as an accessory.) She was a tough, no holds barred girl, his Alex.

_His Alex._

Dangerous territory, that. Police officers, whether they be walking a beat or working undercover or investigating cases, are usually only as good as the partnerships they're able to forge with the cops they are assigned to work with. The strongest of partnerships work because the two people who make them up genuinely care for each other as friends and coworkers. Yet when those two partners are a man and a woman – particularly when they are a man and a woman who function as two separate halves of a very cohesive whole – the lines between friendship, partnership, and something more significant can smudge just enough to make the relationship something a little more.

For Robert Goren, those lines blurred about four years ago and he sometimes doesn't even catch himself when he thinks about Alex Eames as "his Alex" anymore. Usually such thoughts are fleeting enough that they skim across the surface of his overwrought brain with barely a ripple to mark their presence. By the time he realizes what, exactly, has just occurred, it's too late to reverse things so he has to let it go and remind himself to try not to let it happen again.

Yeah. Right. If only it were that easy.

And maybe it _would_ be that easy if Robert Goren didn't know one thing about his partner that keeps him from keeping a firm barrier of professionalism between them at all times. Ignorance, in this case, would truly be bliss, for it would allow him to get through the day without a niggling sense of worry and responsibility and – well, it had to be said – _love_ for the woman who works doggedly by his side with only occasional complaints and who never lets him go so far into his mind that he might lose his way.

But "ignorant" has never been a word that one could use to describe Robert Goren – or "Bobby" as his friends call him (Alex being very much counted as a friend). And so he knows the truth; he lives, eats, sleeps, and breathes the truth and some days it presses so close that it almost chokes him. Some days, like the old adage says, the truth hurts. And some days, it simply fills him with such a sense of wonder that he feels his heart fill to the brim and overflow. Truth is a fickle thing.

In Bobby Goren's case, the truth is this: Alex Eames is willing to lay her life down for him without a second thought – and the idea that she cares that much for him is almost too much to bear.

He can pinpoint the exact moment that he realized the truth; it stands out in his memory with stark clarity and he's even been jerked from a sound sleep as it's crawled through his unconscious thoughts, standing out in such stark silhouette against the dark backdrop of drowsiness that his heart leaps into his throat, his pulse pounding as he awakens in a sudden contraction of muscles and gasping lungs. Sleep hesitates to find him again after the memory invades his dreams – the reality that he carries the weight of her loyalty on his shoulders every day is too pressing to allow him the luxury of rest. On those nights, he usually rises and wiles away the hours until work by catching up on his reading or watching old movies – preferably reading, as old movies tend to remind him of Alex and her love of all things Cary Grant. And on the mornings that follow those nights, Alex seems to have a knack for knowing that he's been stricken by something – though Bobby doubts she knows precisely what – and takes extra care to keep him caffeinated and on an even keel.

His memory has distorted the day a bit by now – it happened two years into their partnership which seems like forever ago – but the facts are fairly simple: a suspect they were arresting in connection with a ring of art forgery and theft had barricaded himself inside his apartment, threatening to kill anyone who walked through the door. Not planning for such a dramatic turn to the case, neither Bobby nor Alex had donned a protective vest for the trip and so they made sure to stay well clear of the door while they awaited the arrival of the SWAT team. But Bobby had a sense that he could probably talk the guy out and so while they waited, he proceeded to charm, cajole, and coerce the suspect, attempting to use his much-lauded rhetorical skills in an effort to render a peaceful resolution to the situation. He was confident enough that it didn't occur to him that things could go bad as quickly as they did, nor did it occur to him how close he had somehow edged to the doorway; in fact, none of that information registered in his mind until the split second when he heard the click of the safety being taken off a sawed-off shotgun and felt the full weight of his petite partner slam into his side.

At six-foot four and solidly built, Bobby Goren had never been knocked over by anyone in his entire adult life – particularly not someone whose ear didn't even reach his shoulder and whose weight was less than half his own. But on that day two years into their partnership, Alex Eames became the first – and only – person to do so, the force of her impact hitting him as though she were a linebacker and propelling him clear of the doorway and onto the floor, his cheek grazing the rough carpet beneath as the blast sent two barrels worth of shells through the door and into the wall on the other side of where he had just been standing. And as soon as she knew he was safe, Alex had drawn her weapon, yelled for the suspect to drop his, and barreled through the now-demolished door with the air of a very POed mother bear.

The suspect (not surprisingly) surrendered rather rapidly after that and practically threw himself into SWAT custody upon seeing Alex's face. Bobby would have laughed at this on any other day, but Alex didn't give him a chance, for at her first opportunity to do so, she turned to her partner, cast her hands on her hips, and demanded to know, "Are you okay?"

The way she asked implied that if he said that he was, she would see to it that he soon wasn't, so he tactfully replied, "Y-yeah – are you?"

"That was a really stupid thing to do," she ignored his question, eyes flashing and chest rising and falling with agitation.

"I know," his tone was soft and he dropped his gaze with the air of a chastised child.

"You could have gotten us both killed, Bobby," she continued.

"I know," he repeated.

She turned to re-enter the apartment and help SWAT with the clean-up, then stopped to look back at him, a bit of humor returning to her gaze and her breathing gradually slowing to its normal rate: "Next time you plan to get us both killed, you mind giving me a warning first?"

"Sure," he said softly, surprised at the quick way she'd softened. It was as though the explosion had left only smoke in its wake.

"Good," she nodded, satisfied.

And when she'd turned away from him and gone inside, he'd realized that there was another emotion that he'd seen behind the anger in her eyes when she'd confronted him, an emotion that had caught him by total surprise and that dropped his stomach into his shoes with the grace of an elevator with a snapped cable: genuine caring and concern. Alex wasn't as much mad at him for nearly getting both of them killed, _she was upset because she cared about him, cared enough to put his life ahead of hers. She was upset because she had feared that she would lose him._

No one – not coworkers, not partners, not family, not friends, and not even girlfriends – had ever looked at Bobby Goren that way. His own mother worried, of course, but her worry tended to be more focused on the imaginings of her schizophrenic mind than on concrete reality, causing her eyes to look at him in a glassy, fixed fashion. Alex was different. She cared selflessly and because of this, she had succeeded in knocking him over twice in one day, once literally and once in a more metaphysical manner.

She was amazing that way, his Alex.

And once he realized that she cared that much for him - that she would willingly throw herself in harm's way in order to protect him – he very quickly realized something else: he felt the same way about her. And that sort of mutual concern was love in its purest form. It wasn't "I love you, you're beautiful" love, nor was it "You had me at 'hello'" love. It went beyond all traditional forms and generally accepted definitions for the word and became something more akin to a joining of souls, a meeting of equals, and the sort of lifetime bond that couldn't be symbolized with a flimsygold band. It was the sort of love that Bobby didn't think that real people discovered – especially not people like him - and the weight of it had the power to both buoy him up to heights he hadn't imagined and knock him to his knees.

On the job, it mostly knocked him down.

Ever since that fateful day, Bobby Goren has spent each hour of his working life in a state of fervent prayer, hoping that nothing like it ever happens again, that the choices he makes on the job never put Alex in harm's way. His record of such instances isn't perfect - there have been a few incidents in the last couple of years that have certainly been a bit hairy - but he clings to the hope that she never has to prove her love by paying the ultimate price because he can't live with that. He isn't worth it and neither is their job.

And yet always in the back of his mind is the knowledge that what they do is too dangerous and his methods are too abrasive to let his prayers be answered. (He often wonders how effective the prayers of lapsed alter boys can be anyway.) So he has to admit that he was, in a way, expecting the turn of events that occurred – expecting and dreading it.

And yet he was still powerless to stop it.

TBC


	2. Middle

Author's Note – I have no idea how much Alex Eames actually cares about Cary Grant movies, but I love them. Therefore, in my LO: CI world, Alex is stuck with this little personality trait. No exceptions. (Also, "yar" is a sailing term, meaning quick to the helm, easy to steer, etc.) And finally, I dedicate Bobby's driving habits to my friend GH, with whom car rides are always an adventure. Red light!

_I'm gonna rock you like a baby when the cities fall  
We will rise as the building's crumble  
Float there and watch it all_

DMB

He should have known it was going to be a shitty day when the memory of the day he had nearly gotten Alex and himself killed woke him at 3:00 in the morning and he resorted to late night TV viewing rather than attempt sleep again. It was 3:09 when he discovered TMC airing _The Philadelphia Story_ with (who else?) Cary Grant. His first instinct was to call Alex and tell her that it was on, knowing that it was one of her favorites, but upon further reflection, he figured that she wouldn't appreciate the wake-up call. She tolerated a lot of things from him (including phone calls during odd hours) but interrupting her beauty sleep was only acceptable in the event of a new case - and even then, said call was required to be followed with a cup of steaming coffee when they met up at the crime scene. It was one of their unspoken rules.

Whether or not it was a sign from some all-knowing higher power, Bobby had no idea, but later on he had to wonder if maybe he shouldn't have heeded the not-so-obvious warning presented by the sudden appearance of both the dream and one of Alex's favorite movies in the same night and at relatively the same time. But even his uniquely talented brain didn't pick up on the signals, and so he watched the movie from beginning to end through half-closed lids – right through Katharine Hepburn's character telling Cary Grant, "Oh, Dexter, I'll be yar now; I promise to be yar" - then went to shower and shave while the coffee pot worked its magic, his mind mulling over the word "yar" for the fun of it.

Truth be told, Bobby always looked forward to going to work each morning, no matter how difficult or upsetting the case was that he and Alex were working on and the reason for that was simply because he knew that at 8:04 (or 8:12 if it was a coffee-instead-of-tea morning and she stopped at Starbucks on the way), she would emerge from the elevator and the day would officially begin. She would walk in, hang her coat on the rack near their desks, and seat herself opposite him, uttering a gentle, "Hey, Bobby" as she did so and in that moment, he would feel his chest tighten, then release in a wave of contentment.

But then the worry would settle in. Would today present a situation that put their lives on the line? Would today be the day that he had to tell her that it wasn't worth it – that _he_ wasn't worth it? Would he ever be able to tell her that the knowledge that she was willing to die for him was the most powerful thing he'd ever known, but that the knowledge alone was enough without her proving it?

That morning, thanks to the recurrence of the dream, the worry set in before he even stepped off the elevator and was already simmering strongly by the time Alex arrived and observed, "You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."

"Lots on my mind and lots to do," he brushed off her concern and handed her the ME report he was poring over, gesturing with his pen to the bottom section. "It looks like our victim was poisoned _before_ he was shot."

"Someone wanted to be very sure that he was dead," Alex frowned thoughtfully, reading the report for herself.

"Someone who didn't trust their knowledge of chemistry to get the job done," Bobby added. "Or maybe someone who couldn't wait for the poison to work."

"Any thoughts about who Nervous Nellie could be?" Alex wanted to know. "The ex-wife? The new fiancée? The trajectory shows that the shooter was short enough to be a woman."

Bobby shook his head in the negative to both suggestions and locked his eyes on hers the way that he normally did whenever they were putting the final pieces of a case together. He was resting his head in his right hand thoughtfully when he asked, "Who else had a motive to kill him? Who needed him to die in order to get what they wanted?"

She read his thoughts, for they spoke the answer in unison: "His son."

Bobby nodded emphatically. "The only way that he was going to get control of the family business was for his father to die. He initially tried to make it look like an accident – he poisoned him at the family dinner. But later they argued. He… he was desperate… enraged… His father was a dead man anyway so he shot him in cold blood."

"And he's only about five foot six, which made it look like his soon-to-be stepmother was behind it," Alex nodded appreciatively. The corners of her mouth turned up wryly: "I guess we should go have a chat with them about the way they handle their family business."

Bobby nodded in agreement but didn't speak, instead rising with his much-abused notebook in hand and gesturing in his most chivalrous fashion for Alex to lead the way to the elevator.

During their drive to the apartment of their suspect, Walt Morgan, Bobby thumbed through his case notes and attempted to organize his thoughts, leaving Alex free to drive in peace and make passing comments about the abilities (and inabilities) of the cab drivers of the city of New York. At her occasional fuming ("The pedal on the right makes the car go, buddy" and "Do you think we can write tickets for excessive braking just because it's annoying me?"), he chuckled softly, as always amused by the competitive spirit she demonstrated so clearly behind the wheel. It was that (and the fact that he was usually far too distracted by their cases to drive responsibly) that had caused her to request the driving privileges when they'd first been partnered and he'd let her have them, if only because he could see how much it meant to her. (For her part, however, Alex maintained that the reason she always drove was because he'd been so distracted by a ring of credit card thefts that they'd investigated during their sixth month together, she'd uttered the phrases, "Bobby, red light," "Red light means stop," and "Red – stop!" no less than thirty times during the course of one twenty minute drive. Bobby maintained that this was an exaggeration; it had been no more than sixteen.)

The first niggling suspicion that something wasn't right about the situation hit Bobby as they climbed the stairs to Morgan's apartment. ("A third floor walk-up?" Eames observed, annoyed. "No wonder he was mad at his father – with the kind of money that company brings in, there should at least be an elevator.") Bobby couldn't place the feeling exactly, but between the dream that morning and the eerie déjà vu that went with their walking into what should not turn out to be dangerous situation, he couldn't help but wonder why his necktie was all of a sudden feeling too tight and constricting.

_Should be._

How many other cops had made assumptions about how situations _should be_, only to be proven wrong at the most inopportune moment? How many "woulda, coulda, shoulda" scenarios had to be tossed around because of such assumptions?

And how many cops had died as a result?

"3B, this is it," Alex halted in front of Morgan's door and proceeded to knock authoritatively. Her confidence seemed as firmly in place as always and her demeanor was resolved and focused - in total contrast to Bobby's suddenly wavering perspicacity.

While they waited for a response, his nerves ceased their simmering and moved directly into a full boil, his fingers twitching uncontrollably at his sides as though they were seeking the smooth comfort of his notebook down in the car. And yet the rational part of his brain - the "it was just a dream, you big moron" part that saw only logic and didn't accept the existence of pure coincidence or déjà vu - also kicked in at full throttle, reminding him, "This is just a simple sit-down with a suspect, Goren. Don't make it into something bigger than it is."

Still, he felt himself jump at the click of a lock being unfastened and a voice asking, "What are you two doing here? Have you found my father's killer?"

Walt Morgan's pale and earnest face came into view then as he cracked the door open a few inches and peered out at them, green eyes questioning.

"We actually were hoping to ask a few additional questions of you, Mr. Morgan," Alex used her smooth, professional tone and, while she hadn't glanced back at her partner, the way she positioned herself so that her right shoulder was pressed gently into Bobby's lapel let him know that she sensed something was amiss with him.

"Anything I can do to help," Morgan nodded, though he didn't open the door any further, seeming instead to be content answering questions from his current position.

Bobby felt his usual "charming detective" persona come over him as he observed this behavior and his head tilted automatically to the left as he asked, "May we step inside, Mr. Morgan? Detective Eames and I had to climb all the way up here and all and, whew! I could use a seat."

"And a glass of water," Alex agreed supportively.

"A third floor walk-up," Bobby shook his head sympathetically. "Man!"

Their affable tones were usually persuasive enough in similar situations and during the tenure of their partnership, both had learned that when it didn't work, something was definitely amiss, so Bobby instantly felt himself tense again when Morgan's eyes veiled over and he remained staunchly in place.

"I don't think so," the man replied firmly. "I can answer just fine from right here."

Undeterred, Bobby kept up the charming routine, though attempted a different tact in his second approach. "Really? Because these things usually take more than a few minutes and it's not as though we haven't seen messy apartments before. I mean, you should see _my_ place – I have books everywhere and it's just a disaster some days."

"It's terrible," Alex shook her head in mock disgust. "He's not a neat freak at all."

Morgan's face grew stonier at their cheerful banter and Bobby felt an automatic twist in his gut while his hand fought the urge to seize his weapon from its holster on his belt. In front of him, Alex too tensed and he could tell that she was having the same thoughts. Whether Morgan was hiding something or not was immaterial; what was more important was how he would act if they backed him into a corner – which their instincts told both of them was necessary in this case.

_We're not wearing vests._ The thought appeared in Bobby's mind as though imprinted on a flashing neon sign and he wanted so badly in that moment to step in front of his partner that his right foot actually lifted from the floor before he caught himself. It wouldn't do anybody any good to jump to conclusions just yet, nor would escalating the mood help any of them reach a peaceful end to things.

_Steady, Goren_, he thought, the voice in his head resembling his old rifle instructor from the Army more than his own. _Just take your time, think this through, and breathe. There's a rhythm here; you just have to find it._

How many times during his stint in the service had he heard that gentle intonation? How many times had he done just as he was instructed and hit his mark successfully? Probably hundreds and, in a way, this situation wasn't all that different; instead of a rifle, however, this time he would need to use his words. Good thing words were his second most important weapon in this line of work.

"You know what?" Morgan asked them suddenly. "On second thought, this isn't really that good of a time. Any chance of you coming back later with your questions?"

_He's giving us an out_, Bobby thought in his rational mind while the rest of his brain screamed at him to take his partner by the arm and run. _This is it. Whatever happens next will determine the outcome._

And Bobby couldn't fight the sudden feeling he had that the world as he knew it was about to end. He couldn't pinpoint the reasons why; all he knew was that whatever happened next was somehow going to change everything.

TBC


	3. End

_When the world ends  
You know that's what's happening now  
I'm going to be there with you somehow_

DMB

When two people have worked together and been friends long enough, they develop a sort of unspoken shorthand that negates unnecessary dialogue and conversation between them. Sentences finish themselves and some stories have been told so many times that they are lore that can be shared with simple the quirk of an eyebrow. A meeting of the eyes can share volumes in what to the uninformed observer might seem to be telepathy. Minds meet. Hearts unfurl. Yet no sounds are exchanged.

In the fraternity of police officers, such relationships abound – though it can certainly be argued that the signs for "Oh shit!" are universal and even two people who've just met stand a good chance of successfully exchanging that particular message. Still, when the two people are Goren and Eames (or, more accurately, GorenandEames), "Oh shit!" is just the beginning of a lightning fast conversation – a conversation with no sound.

In previous situations where the drawing of firearms has been necessary, Alex has proven herself consistently faster on the draw than her partner, thanks in part to her up close and personal contacts with suspects during her stint in Vice. Bobby Goren knows this and has no qualms about acknowledging it, though he mostly gives the credit to her ability to remain in the moment instead of lost in thought, a place where he finds himself much of the time. In a way, it's become their usual pattern for her to draw first and him to follow as back-up. But today, everything that is usual has vanished. Bobby is very much in the moment – head clear, senses honed in - and in his present state of clarity, he fears that the world appears to be ending right now.

Alex shows no sign of nervousness, though, and assumes her "don't mess with me" cop voice as she tells Morgan: "I'm afraid there is no other good time for us, Mr. Morgan. If you don't let us in, Detective Goren and I will have to let ourselves in and it won't be pretty. Now please open the door."

Bobby attempts to look as threatening as his bulky stature suggests, which is no easy feat as he simultaneously attempts to assess what sort of threat Morgan poses in exact terms. Through the miniscule gap in the door, he can't tell if there is a weapon present or not, though Morgan's eyes have begun to glance furtively behind him, causing Bobby to suspect that another person is present. By the sudden tilt of Alex's head in front of him, he understands that she has realized this too.

_One way to find out_, he thinks resignedly. His nerves are still very much in play, but curiosity as to how the situation will be resolved has begun to tug at his consciousness and take over his actions. He hates the unknown – mostly because, like everyone else, he fears it so completely – but unlike most people, he would rather dive in the water without testing it first (heedless of the fact that he might break his neck in the process).

In true Goren fashion, then, he asks bluntly, "Mr. Morgan, is someone else here with you?"

Morgan's eyes widen sharply and his nostrils flare, giving the two detectives a resounding "yes" before the man can even speak to deny it, even though his words offer an unconvincing, "No, it's just not a good time, all right? And unless you're going to arrest me, I'd prefer that you leave. _Now_."

Alex cocks her head back to look at her partner, her voice not indicating that there is any gravity in their present situation. "That sounds like a yes to me. Does it sound like a yes to you?"

Bobby nods, playing along even as his stomach begins to churn with adrenaline. "Oh, it's definitely a yes." He swings his gaze to meet Morgan's head-on, using the extra eight inches he has on the much shorter man to invoke serious intimidation: "Who's here with you, Mr. Morgan? A friend? A very _close_ friend? A girlfriend, perhaps?"

And the moment the words leave his mouth, Bobby's constantly cycling brain feeds him the last piece of the puzzle that is the case and he wonders why he didn't see it before. The double dose of death that befell Walt Morgan's father. The shooter who, like Morgan, stood (as Alex said earlier) around five foot six inches. The person now hidden behind the door of Morgan's apartment – no, make that the _accomplice_ and _murderer_ hidden behind that door.

"It's your father's fiancée, Amy, isn't it?" Bobby hears the soft words emerge from his lips before he even thinks of speaking them aloud. In front of him, Alex's shoulders jerk in surprise as she too sees the full picture. "You two were having an affair behind his back and you both planned to kill him; you just didn't realize that you'd acted simultaneously. But that part didn't matter, because with your father out of the way, the business belongs to both of you. You're equal partners now."

As the final words hover in the air between them, Bobby Goren knows instinctively that this is it. The end of the world is upon them and its departure is marked by the resounding click of a safety being taken off an unseen gun – the same click he nearly missed on that long ago day that he still dreams about. The click manifests in his ears as a roar, the echo causing his heart to shudder with the realization of two things:

Alex is in front of him, a tiny human shield whose body will bear the brunt of the blast.

Alex will not move as long as Bobby is behind her. She will stay to protect him - a mother bear protecting its cub, a friend making the ultimate sacrifice for duty and love.

And in the millisecond that passes while the thoughts register in his cavernous mind, he sees images, stark and bright against the milling thoughts and reflections that race by at lightning speed – he sees Alex's eyes on the day they almost died: fearful, bright and worried. He sees the protectiveness ooze from her on the night Nicole Wallace returned to their lives and he confessed his father's sins to her. He saw the tears and the guilty apology they shared on the day she read aloud in court from a hasty letter she'd written that requested a new partner. He sees the eyes of a woman who loves him more than anyone should love another person and he understands that there is no other chance to tell her all that he feels now - that he isn't worth it, that _she_ is the worthy one with her loyal heart and unflagging spirit. There is no other way to tell her that his world will end without her in it.

The only way he can tell her that he isn't worth it is to show her.

His left hand releases his gun from its holster on his hip as his feet push off from the ground and he uses his significantly larger body to push hers out of the way, knocking her sideways while making sure that he is between her and the imminent threat. As they crash to the hallway floor in what feels like slow motion, he hears Katherine Hepburn's voice ring in his ears as the bang of the still unseen gun shatters the silence and the door of the apartment. "Oh, Dexter, I'll be yar now; I promise to be yar!"

_Please God let Alex be yar, just once_, he thinks fleetingly before his hip and shoulder impact the floor. And she must be because she is with him – quick to the helm and allowing herself to be steered, her body cradled into the shelter of his and falling in silent unison as he moves to let his burly frame absorb the impact.

After the fall, before either can recover adequately enough to rediscover their speech capabilities, Walt Morgan bursts through the door, fleeing his unseen assailant, only to fall in another quick volley of gunfire, his body hitting the wall at the exact place where Alex would have fallen had Bobby not grabbed her. Red blood smears against crisp ecru paint and Bobby attempts to slow his own heart rate enough to be able to discern if Alex is breathing normally.

But Morgan's death means there isn't time to check each other over and both detectives move instantly in response:

"Drop your weapon!" Alex cries, her pistol in hand as she extricates herself from the tangle of Bobby's limbs and crouches low to the floor. Both detectives are out of the firing line, if only temporarily and she is once again shielding them both.

Bobby adds, "Come out with your hands up - now!" and hopes that words are enough. He moves to crouch beside his partner – her equal instead of her ward or her protector – and the two stand toe to toe with the end of the world, daring it to overwhelm them.

But when the shooter – a very angry and very well-armed Amy – emerges from the now destroyed door of the apartment, Bobby realizes the futility of speech. An enraged cry emerges from the recesses of Amy's throat, yet she advances only half a step before Bobby and Alex open fire, both bullets hitting their mark square in the chest and dropping her to the floor beside Morgan.

"You okay?" both speak in unison, glancing at each other with shining eyes. Instinct begs Bobby to grab his partner and pull her close but he makes do with a gentle cupping of her elbow, through which he can feel her pulse race.

"Fine," they both reply at the same time again and she jerks her elbow out of his grasp as she rises to her feet. In her eyes is something that Bobby can't identify and he worries that something is amiss between them. She looks more startled than usual at the turn of events and he intuits that it somehow has nothing to do with the gunfight they've survived.

"Check them for pulses, I'm calling it in." Alex has cell phone in hand and her voice is all business when next she speaks, her stance telling him clearly not to press the issue unless he wants her to call an ambulance for him while she's at it.

He makes no reply, just checks each body and confirms what he already knows: Amy and Walt are both long past saving, their eyes fixed and glassy.

"Gone," he shakes his head when Alex quirks a questioning eyebrow at him.

She relays the necessary information, then closes her clamshell phone and tells him: "The ambulance is coming anyway and IAB is going to want statements from us. Deakins is on his way too."

"Right," he nods softly, holstering his weapon for the time being and leaning his shoulders against the wall, hands behind his back. He glances down to the floor, then raises his gaze until it's just below hers and dares to ask, "You sure you're okay?"

Her eyes lock on his and her voice is flat. "We could have died, Bobby."

"Yeah." He doesn't know what else to do besides agree.

She doesn't speak again, but in her eyes he can see that his fear was founded: the world as they both knew it ended five minutes ago in a hail of gunfire. In the old world, he carried the weight of her loyalty to him alone; he feared the day that she might sacrifice herself for him. And yet now they are in a new world, a world where she knows the truth - that he too is willing to die for her without question. The revelation has shocked and overwhelmed her; it's evident in her stare. She obviously thought she was alone and now knows that they carry the burden together. _And the truth shall set you free…_

She blinks, then, and her inner thoughts are once again veiled to him while a parade of fellow officers, paramedics, and IAB personnel begin to file in and question the two Major Case detectives. Yet Bobby continues to watch her out of the corner of his eye, to monitor her every move as she performs the necessary tasks that arise whenever an officer involved shooting occurs. She's off-balance now – he can see it – and he can't help but wonder if the weight of it will finally tip her over when Deakins, in the midst of railing at them in true caring captain fashion, cries: "It's a wonder you two made it out alive! Do you have any idea how lucky you are that you managed to get each other clear of the door? If it were anyone but you two, I'd be here identifying the bodies!"

Bobby watches Alex swallow a lump in her throat when the captain's words sink in, as though his confirmation has made the truth absolutely irrefutable and real for her, no matter how much she might have denied it before.

_If it were anyone but you two…_

_Do you have any idea how lucky you are?_

The words circle their heads like birds of prey when they're finally able to leave the scene and return to One Police Plaza. Alex is so preoccupied with them while driving that Bobby actually has to utter the phrase, "Red light" as they approach an intersection. In response, he receives an icy glare and falls silent for the duration of the trip.

His track record with his partner has taught Bobby Goren that Alex has a process that she has to run through before she resolves any situation. First she obtains all of the facts. Then she ruminates on them until she is able to form a clear picture in her head. And only after those two steps are complete does she attach an emotional response to them and allow herself to open up. Today's emotional tag is anger and it emerges at the same instant that they exit the SUV and begin to make their way across the parking garage to the elevator.

He's two steps ahead of her when it happens.

"Why did you do it, Bobby?" she asks, tone hard-edged and leaving no wiggle room in the response.

She has stopped walking and is standing with her arms crossed in front of her – defiant – so he has to turn and walk back to her in order to reply.

"Do what?" he asks even though he already knows. He grips his leather portfolio tightly, bracing for her answer.

Her eyes flash. "You know what. You put yourself in the line of fire."

He shrugs, non-confrontational. "You'd have done the same for me."

"You could have died." She flings the words at him.

"We both would have died if we'd stayed there," he counters. "Did you have a better idea?"

She can't argue with that, so she responds in annoyed fashion: "Don't do it again, Goren."

Anger flashes in him then and heat flushes his face. "Don't do what? Save my partner's life? You did the same for me one time; I just thought I'd return the favor. Was I wrong?"

She shakes her head and starts to move past him, so he blocks her path, firing on all cylinders now. "Answer me, Eames – _was I wrong_? Am I not supposed to back you up when we're about to be fired on?"

"It's not that," she counters.

"Well what is it then?" he fires back.

"It's not worth it!" she retorts, not backing away from him, but instead filling up all of her personal space and spilling over into his, toe to toe and eye to eye.

"It isn't?" his voice raises an octave.

Everything that they aren't saying passes between them then, all of the words that, if spoken aloud, would jeopardize the work that they are so passionate about and the friendship that means so much to them. In one glance, they have a complete conversation and reach an understanding, all while the air shimmers between them with all that is unsaid.

Alex backs down first, averting her gaze and breaking the thread between them. "Let's go start the paperwork, Bobby. Forget I said anything."

Bobby Goren has reached his limit, though. For the angst he's endured all day (and for the last several years, come to think of it) and for the near-death experience they have just shared, he has reached his capacity to back down and absorb everything within, hiding his feelings away for a more convenient time and place. The bad dream that woke him up, the niggling fear that something was amiss all day, and the recent events at Walt Morgan's apartment have pushed his sense of duty and propriety into the background and when Alex moves to step past him again, he reaches out his arm and snags her around the shoulders, pulling her in close to his chest and cradling her there.

His muscles brace for a punch to the chest or a kick to the shins, but none comes. Instead, it is a shaking – and ultimately resolute – Alex Eames that he holds in his arms, an Alex Eames he has seen only on the rarest of occasions, _an Alex Eames who clings to him as tightly as he is clinging to her._

Bobby doesn't know how long they've been standing there before the squeal of warm rubber on smooth asphalt announces the approach of a car and he releases her; all he knows is that the look they exchange upon parting tells him everything he needs to know:

The world as they knew it may have ended, but they're all right. They're still together. And the end of one thing is always the beginning of another.

Side by side, they walk to the elevator.

_I'm going to love you  
I'm going to love you  
When the world ends_

_I'm going to hold you  
When the world is over  
We'll just be beginning..._

DMB

Author's Note – I figured I'd put it at the end since everyone was so nervous from the last chapter that I was going to kill Alex. Come on, people – I may have killed Bobby once but I'm not cruel and heartless. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little mystery ride (which may have gone slightly OOC at the end); I know I did. Though next time, I hope my muse lets me in on the whole story from the get go. It's easier on my nerves – and yours.


End file.
